


Signs of Life: A Triptych

by Lelek



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 02:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lelek/pseuds/Lelek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the skies, the Battle of Britain rages. At Baker Street, life goes on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Signs of Life: A Triptych

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this way back in 2009, but for some reason never got around to posting it to AO3. Holmes in the War Rooms and Watson the RAF pilot and I've been saying for [literally] years that I'll write a proper, long WWII AU for this fandom, but have never quite finished it. One day.

_I_

They took tea together on Saturday afternoons. There had been a time when they'd taken tea together nearly every day, but the shape of the world had changed and some concessions had to be made. They had salvaged what they could, compromising and bending circumstances as far as possible (and Sherlock Holmes could bend circumstances very far indeed), and Saturday afternoons had become a sort of private rallying point, the one ritual they categorically refused to give up.

"France surrendered today," Holmes said neutrally, meeting Watson's gaze as he lifted his teacup to his lips. He was very still, but somewhere beneath the calm there was that peculiar hum of nervous energy that Watson had always associated with him.

"Are you surprised?" Watson certainly wasn't, but it wasn't so much a genuine question as something to say. They were good at quiet, and Watson prided himself on understanding Holmes well enough that he didn't always have to ask, but there were times when saying something, even something empty, was preferable to sitting in silence.

"Of course not." Holmes made a derisive noise and finished his tea. "After Dunkirk it was only a matter of time. Didn't I predict that there would be an armistice by the first of July?"

He was right. He was usually right, much to Watson's periodic chagrin. "You did." He sighed, already resigned to what was coming. "I suspect they'll be wanting you back in the War Rooms, then?"

Holmes nodded and ran his fingertip around the rim of his cup. "And you'll be wanted back at Uxbridge." He met Watson's gaze again and held it. "You may not be able to fly, but they'll need you in the operations room. The winds have changed, my dear Watson, and the storm is moving in our direction."

"Wonderful," Watson replied dryly. 

Holmes smiled, the roguish smile that reminded Watson of the way life had been before the war, and the tension shifted from uneasy to something more familiar, as Watson surreptitiously edged his foot closer to Holmes' to snare his ankle. 

The smile widened, sharp and satisfied. "Indeed."

_II_

It was past midnight when Watson finally collapsed in his favorite chair. He felt tired down to his bones and his shoulder ached more than it had in months. His shoulder was why he couldn't fly, that and his leg, and he knew through the haze of bitter regret that he was lucky in spite of the pain. How could he have been anything else when reason said he should have died when his plane went down in France? A ruined shoulder and a slight limp were nothing in the face of having been able to come home.

He reminded himself, as he gingerly rolled his shoulder and exhaled sharply through his teeth in the silence of the sitting room, that the relief on Holmes' face when Watson returned to Baker Street, battered and damaged but alive, had been a remarkable gift.

The door opened and closed. "Long day?"

It was mundanely domestic, as far as things went for them, and Watson smiled. He enjoyed domesticity, more than he cared to admit most days. "Very."

A hand alighted on his shoulder as Holmes circled his chair and settled on the floor at his feet, knees drawn up to his chest. "Shall I tell you about mine, then?"

Watson smiled again and carded his fingers through Holmes' hair. "Please do."

Holmes was silent for the amount of time it took to light his pipe. The match flame seemed unusually bright in the near-black of pre-dawn hours, and Watson felt some of the tight ache seeping away in the face of familiarity. Then Holmes said, "I devoted more hours than I care to recall unravelling the mysteries of German intelligence, in order to more efficiently end this war."

"Did you make much progress?" 

"No." He sighed, exhaling a stream of acrid smoke. He didn't sound particularly despairing, more matter-of-fact than anything, but Watson knew him better than any other man did and could detect the black melancholy only barely held at bay by the flood of things to do. In a sense, the war had granted them a backhanded blessing. Holmes was much less likely to shut himself away for days on end with the War Rooms waiting, and Watson was more grateful for that than he would ever let on.

"You will." He toyed with a lock of hair, coiling it around his fingertip. "It's why they want you, after all."

Holmes tilted his head back, pipe in his mouth. He studied Watson's face for a long moment, searching for something with an expression Watson couldn't read. Then he said, "It's late, my boy, and quite past when you should be in bed." He smiled devilishly around the stem of the pipe. "And, you know, I've a splendid method in mind for getting rid of all that tension."

Watson arched an eyebrow. "Oh, do you?"

"Of course." He rose and held out his hand in a largely misplaced display of gentility. "Come, I'll show you. It is best to learn by example, after all."

_III_

The autumn air was cool against his face as Watson watched the London sky from the vantage point of the open sitting room window. "It's only going to get worse from here."

Holmes rose from where he'd been curled up on the sofa and closed the distance between them to stand at Watson's right shoulder. "I know. But you can't tell me you weren't expecting something like this to happen. Not working at Uxbridge as you've been."

Watson shook his head. "We just don't have what it takes to stop the planes. Our anti-aircraft guns aren't good enough and there aren't enough of them, anyway. Civilians are _dying_ , Holmes."

"I know," he said again, resting his cheek against Watson's temple. "But Britain will win out."

Watson laughed lowly and without amusement. "Britain will wait them out, you mean. We're rather dramatically outgunned at this particular juncture, in case you lot in the War Rooms haven't noticed."

Holmes didn't rise to the bait, though he did tilt his head to kiss Watson's hair. "We've noticed. We may work underground, but that doesn't mean we're unaffected."

"I'm sorry," Watson whispered, irritated with his own irritability. "I'm not angry with you. We're all doing the best we can. It just doesn't feel like it's doing any damn good right now, is all."

Holmes turned him around in his arms, so London was behind him and all he could see was the depth of his friend's gaze. It was a quiet night, still in the curious manner of that moment before a storm. A crooked half-smile quirked the corner Holmes' mouth and he tilted Watson's chin up to kiss him.

"It is," he murmured, his breath warm against Watson's lips. "You'll see."


End file.
